Always
by JeVeuxReves
Summary: A collection of missing scenes from Beckett and Castle's life together.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note: I tried not to write this, but I couldn't. I love the idea of Castle's dark side. Let me know how I did. Post 7x14-15.**

He didn't usually wake when she did. His wife slept like a feral creature: up every few hours, awakened by some unfamiliar sound, some prickle of disquiet. The few times he did wake by her movement, he would tug her into the circle of his arms and assure her that the most dangerous thing she'd find in his loft was him, accompany his words by nibbling on her fingertips to make her smile and snuggle closer.

Some nights, though, they would be so aware of each other that they couldn't help it. The day he had been shot in that dentist office, she had been up whenever he was, smoothing his hair away from his face until his pained breath evened out. The night after Vulcan Simmons had grabbed her, he had wrapped her thoroughly in blankets and body heat and had rubbed her back through every coughing fit, held her tighter with every shiver.

The first night she had come back to his bed after he came back to her, they woke each other a dozen times, him from shadowy nightmares with elusive details, her to remind herself that he was really there.

That tonight would be one of those nights came as no surprise, though for all it's familiarity, it was different. It took him a long minute after his eyes opened to figure out that it was her breathing that had dragged him out of sleep. It was uneven and shaky, coming in sharp little bursts and hitching on the way out. In the darkness, he could see the outline of her shoulders, took in the way she shook, the way she had turned her back to him. She didn't want a witness to this, and he watched helplessly for several minutes until he realized that he didn't have to be one.

He rolled onto his side, draped an arm around her waist, and fit himself to her body like a puzzle piece, making a sleepy little snuffle in her hair before letting his breath even out to lick over the nape of her neck. She stilled the second he put her in the loose embrace and he waited her out, limp and pliant, but steady in all the ways that she wasn't, strong for her in the only capacity he thought she would allow.

The truth was that this was a grief he couldn't share, a reminder of how much better than him she was. He had walked into that house knowing full well that he was orchestrating an assassination. He had picked his words carefully, chosen them with the same dedication that he would have if it was for one of his novels, strung them together into a path that led him to his end game. He understood words better than he understood anything, knew exactly what phrases to use to elicit the response that he wanted. He could have chosen any phrase, any code to send his message to Esposito, but he'd chosen _take the shot_. He had wanted to say it exactly as he did: staring Tyson straight in the eye. He'd wanted to see the realization, watch the understanding dawn in that smug face. He'd wanted Tyson to know the it didn't matter who pulled the trigger, because his killer was before him. Watching the light fade from his eyes was just icing on the cake. He'd _wanted_ Jerry Tyson to die.

She wasn't like him. She hadn't wanted Kelly Nieman to die, and she certainly hadn't wanted to wield the knife. She'd just been protecting herself, trying to stay alive. Nieman's death was not something that he was going to mourn. Two people had died today, and he would have slept well, if not for the fact that the woman he had married was a much better person than he. This was going to haunt her for a very long time to come.

He vowed that one day, he would point out the countless lives that she had saved at the cost of this one. He would take her to Central Park, sit her down on a bench and point out every jogger, dog-walker, and college girl he saw with blonde hair, remind her of what could have been. One night, he'd take the broken, jagged pieces of the woman he loves and fit them back together, just like he'd done before, just like he'd always be there to do.

But not tonight. Tonight, he'd let her hurt. Tonight, he'd hold her in the loosest sense of the word and let her believe he was still asleep so she could bury her face in her pillow and tremble and sob, bleeding the guilt from the wound. He'd feign sleep until the real thing pulled her under and she finally, _finally_ relaxed, safe in his arms.

He fell asleep smiling.


	2. Chapter 2

****Author's Note: I wanted to write Castle when he was young and callous and shallow. This is what happened. The**** ** _ **real**_** ** **first time they met, set about ten years before the series starts.****

He would conservatively estimate that he'd been there for at least a week. Book signings were, without a doubt, the worst part of being a writer. The line stretched out, seemingly endless, before him, filled with middle aged woman itching to tell him about how _they_ were his biggest fan, grill him about where his storylines came from, or the absolute worst: wax poetic about how they'd _love_ to meet a man like Derrick Storm.

He had to smile and act flattered and pretend to be engaged in any given conversation and sign his name over and over and over again until his fingers cramped and his entire world dissolved into a sea of glossy new dust jackets, crisp white title pages, a sharpie, and the same question repeated a thousand times. _What's your name? What's your name? What's your name?_

The book that landed on the table in front of him was not a newly printed copy of _A Calm Before Storm_. It was a paperback of _Flowers for Your Grave_ and it was anything but new. The spine was cracked in several spots and the pages were dog-eared and yellowing. When he picked it up, he thought he could smell alcohol, old and stale and cheap. Which only made the young woman in front of him more intriguing.

She was dressed in the bulky black uniform of a beat cop, but was doing a marvelous impression of a drowned rat. Her hair had by-and-large escaped the confines of her bun and the strands were plastered to her skin in dark ropes. Her cheekbones were sharp, standing out in high relief in her pale face. It combined with the dark circles under her eyes to paint a picture of a recently ended shift, giving her enough time to get to the signing, but not enough to go home and change. She was clearly weary, tired from a long day, but her hazel eyes were bright, sharp awareness and fierce intelligence, and...

Who was he kidding? She was hot. She was hot and he'd be crazy not to have noticed. He gave her his most charming grin. "I would ask if you're here to arrest me, Officer..." He checked her out unabashedly under the pretense of finding her nameplate. He was willing to bet good money that she had a killer body under that uniform. "Beckett, but I suspect that you get that pretty often."

"Kate." She corrected, and he noticed that she didn't look overwhelmingly charmed, though there was some begrudging amusement in her tone. "It's not actually all that common. Most people tend to take the badge more seriously." She gave him a stern look and he held his hands up in subjugation.

"Guilty." He admitted, unable to resist. She tried very hard to fight the smile on her face, huffed out a laugh instead. He grinned and picked up her book. "So, I have to ask: Why _Flowers for Your Grave?_ "

"Oh, well..." Was that a blush? She was blushing. How cute. "It just... got me though something difficult."

He wanted to ask more, wanted to pick apart her mystery and piece it back together, wanted to find all the little insignificant details that made up her narrative.

But he still had a line and at some point tonight, he really needed to get home and feed his little girl. Plus, if he ever wanted to get Gina, the up-and-coming girl at his publisher's office into his bed, it would probably be a good idea to keep this policewoman out of it. So he just smiled and when he leaned over her book to sign it, he resisted the urge to add his phone number to his name. Instead, he just closed the cover and handed it back to her. "Well I'm glad I could help."

"Thanks." She accepted the book, hugging it to her chest.

"You sure you don't want to arrest me? You'd be doing me a huge favor." He kept his voice low, conspiratorial as he eyed the line behind her.

She chuckled, rolling her eyes. "Maybe next time."

"I'll hold you to that." He assured her, and when she left, his gaze followed her out.

 _To Kate:_

 _Remember every cloud has a silver lining._

 _Thanks for being mine today._

 _R. Castle_.


	3. Chapter 3

When he finally releases her, and it takes him a full two minutes of feeling her thin shoulders beneath his hands and drinking in the cherry scent of her lotion before he does, the unis haven't moved. They hold position, guns raised, eyes wary. He takes a half step to the side, shielding her narrow frame with his wide one. "Guys, it's _Beckett_." He reminds them, speaking slowly, like they're stupid. He stares Esposito down, because he would have thought that if anyone should be reminding them of their job- _which is to protect her -_ it should have been the other detective.

Espo doesn't tell them to stand down, but neither is he aiming a gun at the woman that Castle loves, who has just gone through hell for the thousandth time. He's holding it pointed towards the ground, staring at Neiman's body. "The scalpel, bro."

Oh. Right.

Castle turns back to his traumatized wife, watching as her wide eyes take in the array of weapons aimed at her. She tenses, and he cradles her face in his palms and makes her lift her gaze to his. "Kate?"

She's eerily silent, staring at him like she only has a vague idea of who he is. It scares him more than he cares to admit, but slowly her throat works, her lips part. "Castle." His name is an affirmation on her tongue, and relief floods through him. They've had her for so long, could have hurt her terribly, but here she is: perfect and lovely and _alive_.

He smiles and presses a kiss to her crown when she relaxes into him. He kneads her shoulders, slides his hands down her arms, and she goes rigid when his fingers approach her wrists. "It's okay-"

"No." She mumbles, trying to pull away from him. He grabs her shoulders, his grip tight, and her gaze snaps to his, her eyes wide and frightened.

"Listen to me." _His_ eyes are steady and calm. "You're safe. It's okay, but you need to let me have the knife, okay?" He waits her out, holding his breath until she nods slowly.

He goes for the knife again, letting his hand make the long trip over her shoulder and down towards her wrist. "Castle, the blood." She informs him, like it's a complete sentence. Her nose wrinkles a little in disgust, and he chuckles, giddy with relief. Of course that would be what's giving her pause.

"I don't care." He replies, and plucks the scalpel from her hand, dropping it to the floor with a musical little sound.

The sound breaks the tableau in the room. The guns go down and the cops get to work, under Espo's sharp eye. Two break off from the pack to approach Beckett and find themselves met with Castle's cold stare. No one comes near her right now. _No one_. They hesitate, then move past husband and wife to help their comrades. Castle slides his unbloodied hand around her waist, cradling her close. "Come on. Let's get you cleaned up."

"Your jacket." She says, trying to keep distance between her hands and his clothing, and he rolls his eyes to the heavens, pulling her in against him.

"Still don't care." He assures her, steering her out of the room. She goes quietly, following simple orders, but there's still that confused disconnected expression on her face as they follow the signs to the restrooms. They had traced the call to a clinic up for rent in the Bronx, and he had spent the entire car ride with his heart in his throat, hoping that they wouldn't be too late. They might have been, if Beckett hadn't gotten free. He stops in the middle of the hallway to snuggle her close and remind himself that she's alive. Alive and in shock.

He knows what shock looks like, and she's definitely in it. That's okay. She'll heal, and shock is so much better than dead.

They end up in the ladies' room and he plants her in front of the sink, bracketing her with his arms, his chest a solid wall at her back. He watches her stare at herself in the mirror, her eyes wide in her too-pale face. The garish glow from the emergency lights overhead throws her cheekbones into high relief, making her look sunken and frail when he knows she's anything but. She catalogs her face in the mirror before her eyes start the trek downward, toward her hands. "Eyes on me." He commands sharply, and she meets his gaze in the mirror. "Watch me. Okay?" She nods. Her hands are a gory mess, and he doesn't wish the sight on her. Death by scalpel, he imagines, is not pleasant.

He turns the taps, letting the water heat, and pumps soap out of the little dispenser on the wall before using his own body to lean her forward over the sink and setting one of her hands under the stream. He watches her face in the mirror for a while, making sure she'll keep her eyes on his face, and then he focuses in on her hand. The water runs pink at it swirls around the drain, and he works meticulously, cleaning between her fingers and under her nails, working his way up to her wrist.

If he weren't wrapped around her the way he is, he wouldn't have felt her chest expanding as she drags in a shaky breath. He glances at the mirror to see her staring down at her left hand, the one he hasn't gotten to yet. "Eyes on me." He repeats, and she obeys, meeting his eyes.

"Castle." She says, like she's realizing he's there for the first time. Which, honestly, she probably is. "Tyson-"

"Dead." He says firmly, sure this time around. "Espo took him out."

She nods, and he moves on to her left hand. "And Neiman..."

"Yeah." He agrees. "You're not hurt?"

"No. I'm fine. You?"

"Unscathed." He assures her, and it's mostly true. He can brag about getting tased later, once things are a bit calmer. He soaps up her hands, scratching his blunt nails against her skin and massaging her fingers for a very long moment before rinsing and shutting the water off. "All done."

"Good." She asserts, and darts past him into a stall, where he can hear her dry heaving. He doesn't suppose they bothered to feed her for the two days that they had her. With a sigh, he follows her in, tugging silken strands away from her face and rubbing soothing circles over her bent spine. Eventually, she sits back on her heals and leans against his chest. He would be content to sit on the floor and hold her forever, but at some point, the police are going to want their statements.

"We should get back." He starts to rise, but her hand stops him.

"It was horrible, Castle." She says quietly. "Doing that to another person. It was..." He can feel the shudder pass down her spine, and he wraps her into his arms.

He wants to point out what Neiman has done to others, but that's not how Beckett sees the world. Neiman's shortcomings as a human being will not, to Beckett, excuse what she did. Frankly, Castle thinks the crazy bitch deserved it, but he knows better than to say that. Instead, he rests his chin on her shoulder and turns his head to press a kiss just below her ear. "I know." He promises her. "She would have killed you."

"I know." She says, too quickly.

"Come on." He rises, and this time, she comes with him, still clinging to him, still overwhelmed and horrified by what she's done. He lets her crowd him, keeping an arm firmly around her waist as he leads her towards the exit. "I, for one, would much rather have you in the world than Neiman. You're _way_ prettier."

The laugh she gives him is weak, but it is still a laugh, and it gives him hope. He knows that they'll never forget this debacle, but she's safe and she's alive and they will get through this. As they step outside, he thinks the world is a little bit brighter.


	4. Chapter 4

She's going to get the job. That's not even a question in his mind. The Attorney General – hell, _anyone_ – would be crazy not to want her. The only problem is that he does too. Or he thought he had. He isn't so certain anymore. He loves her, that's inarguable, but she had kept it a secret, hidden the interview from him. A lie of omission, but still a lie. The ironic thing is that he would have told her to take the interview, would never have dreamed of standing in the way of her career until the option was taken from him.

He's not surprised so much as disappointed. It hurts to realize that she thinks so little of him, that she believes that he wouldn't stand behind her, support her in whatever decision she makes, Long before they were lovers, he was the person she turned to in situations like this, her best friend. Apparently, she's forgotten that, and that might be the worst part.

His mother accused him of wanting Beckett to put him first, but that's not quite true. He just wants her to consider him, to let him be part of the equation, not hide things and go behind his back. He just wants her to have told him about it, asked his opinion.

If they have a hamartia, it has always been lack of communication.

They speak in subtext and body language, dance around what they really want to say in the same way they once danced around a relationship. Only he doesn't know the steps to this dance. He is cautious with her, a trait borne from years of waiting and choosing his words carefully to try to avoid the fear in her eyes when he got too close to a truth she wasn't ready to hear. He had thought they were past that, had believed that they had somehow finally stumbled onto solid ground. He should have known that it wouldn't last.

He doesn't know what to do about that, doesn't know what it means for their future, if there even is a future for them. For the first time in a long time, he wishes for the Beckett he had known before they started this relationship, the Beckett who would roll her eyes and tell him what he was doing wrong, or what he wasn't doing that he _should_ be. He hadn't known how much he had depended on her guidance until now, when he doesn't have it.

If she takes the job, he won't have that guidance ever again. He won't be her partner anymore. He won't be her boyfriend or her lover. He'll have to put her on a plane and kiss her for the last time.

He stares around the office where he had finally started writing again, where he had put her story, her passion and drive to paper. If she stays, it will absolutely be for him, and it will mean giving up a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. He wants her to stay, but he can't ask that of her.

He thinks about when he kissed her for the _first_ time. The moment is seared into his memory: the way she had melted into his touch, wrapped her arms around his shoulders and let him get lost for the span of a few pounding heartbeats. He had spent over a year remembering that moment, dreaming about the day that she would let him kiss her again.

He wants her to be his last first kiss, and he wants to be hers. He'll send her off to DC, but he wants her to leave with his ring on her finger with the taste of his murmured _I love you_ on her lips.

What he _doesn't_ want is to give her up. He had fought every step of the way to get to this point, and he learns that he's not ready to stop fighting for Kate Beckett. He never will be.

His mind clear, he stands, pockets his keys, and grabs his jacket. He has to go ring shopping.


End file.
